Some years ago, there lived in Szolnok a widow with her two daughters. It was a long time since the lady had been made a widow, and yet she still wore her weeds; and every year she grew paler and weaker, as she drew nearer to her husband's grave. But two sweet buds still blossomed beside the withered stem; and Ilka and Aniko grew more and more lovely as their bridal-day approached,—for they each wore betrothal rings, and their young bridegrooms were noble, handsome, and generous youths. They were both in the army; and though far from their native land, every month brought a letter from each, full of affection and of hope. It was now two months, however, since news had come. "They are surely coming home themselves," said Ilka and Aniko, and there was comfort in the thought.
It was the last day of the year—that day of thanksgiving for the past, and hope for the future, which we love to pass in the midst of friends and family, while many a national song and warm greeting are exchanged, as the bowl passes round the hospitable board.
But the last day of 1848 saw no wassail bowl in Szolnok, no hospitable meetings to hail the new-born year.
All day and through the night the whistle of the train was heard, as it came and went incessantly; and the arrivals and departures being at uncertain hours, the terminus was crowded with people wearing gloomy and anxious countenances, while the new-comers gazed perplexed around them, ignorant whither to turn in the confused and unknown town.
Beyond the terminus, heavy baggage-carts had overturned numerous unclaimed wares; while, farther off, uncovered waggons stood about, and great guns, chests bearing the Government seal, arms, vessels, and articles of clothing, lay strewn unheeded all around.
Again the train came in with cold and anxious passengers, while outers pressed into the vacant seats; and many who had waited all day in vain, finding no places, were obliged once more to return weary and disconsolate.
Armed and official men alighted from the nearest coaches, and again the terminus was crowded. Women closely veiled and muffled, pale trembling girls, and little children were there also, taking a hurried farewell, or waiting anxiously for expected friends and relatives; and many were the unheeded inquiries—an hundred questions put for every answer.
And now the train was filled with military, whose wild songs chimed strangely with the noise of the machinery.
Meanwhile, all was hurry and confusion within the town: each individual seeming occupied by his especial grievances—each felt alone among the thousands who surrounded them. The new-comers went from house to house, asking lodgings and warmth from inmates more wretched than themselves. Powerful magnates, whose palaces had been scarcely large enough for their numerous guests and retinues, were glad to find shelter on the earthen floor of a reed cottage; while ancient enemies, whose feuds had made a kingdom too small to contain them, now shared their broken fortunes in one room; and high-born maidens, accustomed to every refinement, received with thankfulness the benches proffered by strangers, who found a scarcely harder bed upon the earthen floor.